path: root/74138-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74138 ***





                    The Love Song of Lancelot Biggs

                           By NELSON S. BOND

           All Lt. Biggs wanted was a shipboard bouquet for
            his wife, but the seeds grew a little too well!

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                    Amazing Stories September 1942.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


Well, it's just like I told you. The last time you friends, dopes, and
country hicks lent me your ears I said the _Saturn_ was scheduled for
an ordinary, routine, commonplace cargo shuttle to Uranus. But I also
hunched it that inasmuch as my screwball pal, Lt. Lancelot Biggs, was
treading the bridge almost anything was rather more than likely to
happen.

And I was right. Only even in my wildest nightmares I didn't have any
idea what was going to be chucked at us when we laid our lumbering old
space-freighter down in the cradle at Sun City spaceport.

You see, the _Saturn_ shuttles back and forth between the planets of
the solar system, carrying everything and anything. When you carry
cargoes like that, you often find yourself loaded up with plenty of
trouble, and I don't mean maybe! And with Lancelot Biggs, those cargoes
can _do_ things!

What happened was that Johnston--he's the Interplanetary Corporation's
port clearance official on Mars--came loping over to our jalopy like a
hound in a hamburg orchard and closeted himself with Cap Hanson. For
about a half hour they held privy council, as clubby as moths in an
all-wool suit, and when they appeared again, the hush-hush was so loud
it almost deafened you.

A few minutes later, stevedores started hauling into the _Saturn's_
cargo bins an accumulation of air-tight, leaden containers. These
workmen, too, were furtive as clergymen at a crap game, and all I
could get out of them by way of explanation was the one word sentence,
"Idunnonothinaboutit!"

So I hunted up Lancelot Biggs, who generally knows practically
everything about practically everything, and of course I found him
standing with one gangling arm draped limply about the shoulders of his
brand-new bride, Diane Biggs (_née_ Hanson), staring at a perfectly
commonplace Martian sunset as though it were a gala world premiere
presented especially for his benefit. And I complained, "Hey, Biggs!
What's all the mystery about? What makes with the cargo?"

Biggs said, "Oh, hello, Sparks. Gorgeous evening, isn't it? You know,
this magnificent sunset makes me think of that beautiful old Martian
poem: '_To be with one's love when the scarlet orb._...'"

"Yeah," I said. "It's pretty, but unimportant. What I want to know is,
who's hiding what from who? And if we're toting high explosives to
Uranus, why doesn't the Old Man tell me so I can quit _now_?"

That got him. He snapped out of his trance and stared at me
bewilderedly, his oversized Adam's-apple bobbling up and down in his
throat like an unswallowed electric light bulb.

"What's that, Sparks? High explosives!"

And Diane said, "But that's impossible, Lancelot, dear. You _know_
Daddy would have told us, if--"

That's as far as she got with her iffing, for at that moment the
skipper himself came waddling across the field like a pint-sized
tornado on toes and rasped, "All right, let's get going! Everybody
aboard! Sparks, audio all hands to rocket posts and get your clearance
O.Q. Lancelot, set trajectory for Iapetus--and make it snappy! We're
lifting gravs immediately, if not sooner."

"_Iapetus!_" gasped Diane. "But--but, Daddy, I thought we were
shuttling a cargo to Uranus?"

"_Was!_" snapped the Old Man. "Not is. Orders have been changed. Get
going, everybody!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Well, there are limits. I planted my tootsies in good old terra firma
and said stubbornly, "Not me, Skipper. I'm not stirring a step till I
know what this is all about. Why this sudden shift of destination? And
what were you and Johnston sneaking around corners to whisper about?
And what are those lead cubes the cradle monks have been storing in our
bin?"

"I ain't got time to explain now," said the Old Man. "Every minute
counts. Now run along and--"

"Ah-hah!" I ah-hahed. "So it is explosives! O.Q., Skipper, consider
me an ex-member of the _Saturn's_ crew, as of two minutes ago. Space
travel's dangerous enough without lousing it up with dynamite which
might or might not. My aim is to sail the spaceways in _peace_ ... not
in _pieces_."

Cap Hanson's beefy face mottled dangerously, and he choked, "Confound
you, Sparks, if there was another bug-pounder available I'd accept your
resignation with whoops of glee. But as it is--Well, I'll tell you this
much. It ain't explosives. It's something perfectly harmless but very
valuable, which it's important we get to Iapetus before the Cosmic
Corporation beats us there. _Now_--will you get goin', or do I have
to--?"

"Oh, goody!" squealed Diane. "A race, eh, Daddy?"

"That's right," growled Hanson. "And a mighty important one, too, with
about a quarter of a million credits hanging on it."

I sniffed. "Is that all? Then what's all the rush about? The race is
not always to the swift."

"Oh, no?" The Skipper glared at me. "Says who?"

"Says a guy named Aesop."

"Well," snorted the Old Man, "all I got to say is that there Ee-sop
friend of your'n didn't never bet on the ponies. Now, get goin',
everybody, before I--"

So we went.

       *       *       *       *       *

So we went, and of course with Lancelot Biggs on the bridge handling
things it didn't take long to get going. Within a half hour we'd lifted
gravs from Sun City, and in three shakes of a rocket's tail, Biggs
had twisted our crate's nose about and pointed it at Saturn's eighth
satellite, approximately 800,000,000 miles away.

Which left me with nothing to do till Slops gonged the dinner bell,
so I was just sitting there reading the latest edition of _Spaceways
Weekly_ when the door of my turret opened and in walked L. Biggs.

Well, call it "walked" if you want to. That overworked verb neither
accurately nor truthfully describes Lanse Biggs' peculiar style of
locomotion. His method of self-propulsion is a sort of cross between a
sidle and a galumph. Think of a giraffe wading in oiled ball-bearings,
or a Mexican jumping-bean on stalks, and you'll have some idea what I
mean.

Anyhow, he came in, closed the door behind him and grinned at me
triumphantly.

"Well, Sparks," he chortled, "I found out!"

"Yeah?" I snorted. "Well, now if you mosey around and find _in_, too,
you'll have both sides of the swinging door, won't you? Found out what?
What are you talking about?"

"Why, what you wanted to know. I found out what we're carrying to
Iapetus."

My interest revived like a zombie at a Black Mass. "You did?" I
exclaimed. "Finally wormed it out of the Old Man, eh? Well--what is it?"

"Seeds," said Lance.

"Huh?"

"Seeds."

I said, "Don't look now, but there must be something wrong with my
ears. It keeps sounding like you're saying 'seeds'."

"That's exactly," said Biggs patiently, "what I _am_ saying, Sparks.
We're carrying _seeds_ to Iapetus. You know, little round--"

"Doogummies," I finished for him, "with unfledged thingamajiggers in
'em. Yeah, I know what seeds are. But I'll be damned if I know why
we're carrying seeds almost a billion miles across space to a hunk of
rock so cold and bleak that you have to thaw out the air before you can
breathe it."

"That's just it!" explained Biggs excitedly. "You see, until just
recently it was thought that the climatic conditions on Iapetus
made that world uninhabitable. But recently an exploration party
has discovered that after you melt your way through a quarter mile
sheathing of ice, the entire planet is honeycombed with a vast,
connected, sponge-like series of caverns. Good, warm, habitable caverns
with earth to grow things in, and--"

"Ice to cold storage them in," I concluded, "after you've grown 'em.
It sounds enticing--in a horrible sort of way. So who wants to live
there? Snowmen?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Biggs said soberly, "Practically everybody who's heard about the
discovery. You see, Sparks, they not only learned that Iapetus could
sustain human life; they also discovered that the entire planet is one
great storehouse of precious mineral ores.

"Miners, adventurers, homesteaders ... humans from all over the solar
system are flocking there as fast as they can drive their space-craft.
Iapetus is a boom planet. It's a gold rush that makes Sutter's Mill and
the Klondike seem like a polite game of musical chairs."

I moaned feebly and pawed what by this time ought to be--even if it
ain't--my graying thatch.

"What you're saying," I complained, "begins not to make sense faster
than ever. Thousands of people flocking to the Iapetus mines with picks
and shovels and dreams of wealth ... and we join the gold rush with a
cargo of seeds. Why?"

"But, don't you see?" explained Biggs. "Where there are mines there are
humans. Where there are humans there are communities. Where there are
communities--"

"People get hungry!" I burst in. "Of course! Now I get it. We're
bringing them the seeds to sow vegetables with, is that it?
And--oboyoboy! If we get there first, it'll be worth millions."

Because I had remembered the "most favored company" clause in the
General Space Regulations, the paragraph which grants an eleven
year commercial monopoly on any product to that company which first
introduces any product to a newly-developed outpost of civilization.

These extra-territorial rights are the prizes for which outfits like
ours and the Cosmic Corporation vie eagerly, because when you gain such
a privilege it's just like finding a free pass to an eleven year ride
on the gravy train.

One of the lushest feathers on our company's commercial cap is the
monopoly on electric refrigerators to the Mercurian outpost, just as
the deepest lines were graven on the face of our Board of Directors
when the Cosmic Corporation grabbed the atmosphere-conditioning
privileges on methane-blanketed Uranus.

But my glee was shortlived, for Biggs looked embarrassed. He shuffled
from one foot to another like a cow in a quagmire. And--

"It's--er--they're not vegetable seeds, Sparks," he said meekly.

"Huh?" I gasped. "Then what _are_ they? What other kinds of--?"

"Why--er--" said Lance, "they're flower seeds."

       *       *       *       *       *

I said, "Flower seeds! Sweet howling serpents of Sirius! Curl my
hair and call me a chrysanthemum! Has the whole darned I.P.S. gone
lah-dee-dah? Why in the name of--"

Biggs said soberly, "Now don't get upset, Sparks. It's not so silly as
it sounds. As a matter of fact, it's one of the most intelligent moves
I've ever known the stuffed sh--I mean, the officials of our company
to make. You see, flower seeds are a great deal more valuable than
vegetable seeds."

"Oh, yeah! Sure! That's easy to prove, too. When a man's starving, just
give him his choice between a loaf of bread and an orchid corsage--"

"No, Sparks, that's not the situation at all. You see, the problem here
is not one of feeding the Iapetan colonists. They have plenty to eat.
The satellite is so near its mother planet that edible supplies can be
imported in great quantities. And even though food concentrates are not
always particularly tempting to the palate--"

"Like," I told him, "dead fish ain't always particularly pleasing to
the nostrils--"

"Nevertheless," continued Lancelot Biggs, "the Iapetan miners will have
plenty of food. But to borrow an expression from a wise old book, 'Man
does not live by bread alone.' There is such a thing, you know, as
maintaining public morale, and one of the best ways of doing this is
to offer people some small but tender fragment of beauty. Something to
delight the eye with its color, soften the air with its fragrance. In
short--flowers.

"You know, it's like some old Indian philosopher said way back in the
20th Century: If a man has but two coins in his pocket, he should take
one of them and buy 'hyacinths wherewith to feed the soul'."

"Nevertheless--" I interrupted doggedly.

"So," pursued Biggs, "our company is being very clever in hurrying this
shipment of flower seeds to Iapetus. Not only because the people will
love them, buy them, plant them eagerly for the pure, sensual pleasure
of watching something grow--but also because there is big money in it.

"Didn't you ever hear of the famous Holland Tulip Market where fabulous
prices were paid for unusual buds?[1] Who knows but that something
like that might happen on Iapetus, and our company might make
millions!"

[Footnote 1: "Every reader possibly knows of the 'Tulip Mania' in
Holland (1634 to about 1638 A.D.) when speculation in bulbs became as
wild as speculation has been at other times on the Stock Market. A
record price of 13,000 florins (equal to about 260,000 florins today,
or $104,000 American money) is reported to have been paid during the
mania for one bulb of the variety _Semper Augustus_." Gager: _The Plant
World_.--ED.]

"Out of which," I conceded grudgingly, "we might even collect a half
day's pay as bonus. Well, maybe you've got something there, Lance.
Maybe it _is_ a good idea. But when I signed up for space service I
never thought I'd end up as flower boy to a cosmic wedding."

       *       *       *       *       *

This last comment elicited an unexpected result. At the word "wedding,"
Biggs stiffened like the feature attraction at a post-mortem. A
frenzied look glazed his eyes.

"Oh!" he gulped. "Wedding! Sparks, thanks a million. I had almost
forgotten."

"Forgotten what?" I demanded.

"Why, my anniversary."

"Anniversary! Are you off your beam? Why, you and Diane have only been
married--"

"Two months," nodded Lancelot Biggs. "Day after tomorrow is our third
anniversary." He swallowed sort of shyly, which is hard to do when
your emotion exhibits itself in the frenzied leaping of a laryngial
elevator. "Diane and I--well, we celebrate our wedding every month on
the anniversary of the day we were married."

"And no quicker road to the poor-house," I sniffed, "was ever
macadamized. So what are you going to do by way of celebration, Romeo?
Take her to the observation deck and treat her to a view of the starry
firmament revolving in its courses? That's about all the excitement
there is available on this crate."

Biggs had been thinking furiously, a process which is always
demonstrated by the way he shuffles from one foot to another. Now he
snapped his fingers.

"No--I've got it, Sparks. Something unusual. A real surprise.
Something that will startle and delight her."

"I know," I hazarded. "A new frock. You're going to whip it up in your
spare time out of tarpaulin and old tablecloths."

"No, Sparks, I'm going to give Diane--" He paused
dramatically--"flowers. Fresh flowers!"

I stared at him stupidly. And no cracks about how I couldn't very well
do anything else.

"Flowers?" I repeated. "But where in blazes are you going to get fresh
flowers out here in the middle of space?"

Biggs jerked a knuckly thumb in the general direction of the ship's
hold. "Why, down there, of course. From our cargo bin."

I stared at him disgustedly. "Oh, sure," I drawled. "Pardon me all
to hell. I plumb forgot about them. But look: aren't you overlooking
one tiny detail? Those blossoms are in what is technically known as
the 'papoose' stage. Which means they're only about six weeks shy of
blooming. Not to mention the fact that at present they're planted in
air-tight lead containers."

       *       *       *       *       *

Biggs shrugged easily. "Oh, _that_!" he scoffed. "A mere nothing.
Haven't you ever heard of hydroponic culture, Sparks?"

"Hydro-whichic-whature?"

"Hydroponic culture," he repeated. "It's a method of growing plants
artificially in tanks of water chemically treated with the constituents
necessary to growth. It's very old. Over three hundred years."

"Maybe so," I granted. "But those seeds are very young. And you've only
got seventy-two hours to work in. Even with artificial culture, how are
you going to bring them to full bloom in three days?"

Biggs said happily, "That's the most wonderful part of it, Sparks.
It so happens that only recently I have been conducting a series
of experiments on plant culture. If my theories are right, I think
I have discovered a way to speed up the growth of living vegetation
tremendously. Of course, my ideas are still only in the experimental
stage, but I'm practically certain they will work."

I said, "Oh-oh!" and started for the door.

Biggs stared at me anxiously. "What's the matter, Sparks? Where are you
going?"

"I don't know," I told him, "but wherever it is, it's a long way from
here. I've had experience with inventions of yours before.[2] If
you're going to start fiddling around again with things you don't know
anything about--"

[Footnote 2: For stories of Sparks' experiences with Lancelot Biggs'
inventions, see copies of _Fantastic Adventures_ and _Amazing Stories_,
1940-1-2.--ED.]

"But I _do_ know _all_ about it, Sparks," wailed Lancelot. "And I'm
almost positive my plan will work. Now, be a good fellow, will you?
Help me carry one of those lead containers up to that spare chamber on
A Deck, and, let's see--I'll need a tank, a quart of vitamin B extract,
an ultraviolet ray lamp--"

So, you know me. Lollypop Donovan, the eternal sucker. I helped him.

       *       *       *       *       *

By way of alibi, I might as well confess here and now that I didn't
think anything would come of Biggs' experiment. Oh, I know that in the
past he has pulled so many bunnies out of the _chapeau_ that his hat
resembles a rabbit-warren. But this time I would have bet my somewhat
battered immortal soul to the Black Gentleman with the Long Tail that
Biggs had bitten off more than he could chew. 'Cause according to what
my mama done tole me about the bees and the birds and the flowers, that
biological phenomenon known as "life" requires a certain amount of
time to establish itself.

But small items like impossibilities don't faze Mr. Biggs. He's the
kind of a guy who never says die until he finds himself reporting for
duty to the white-winged watchman at the Pearly Gates.

So for several hours he fiddled and diddled around with the complex
array of gadgets he had accumulated, and finally he turned to me and
said, with a smile of satisfaction, "Well, Sparks, there it is! How
does it look?"

"It looks," I told him frankly, "like a nauseous bathtub on stilts. You
mean you really expect to grow flowers in that overgrown fishbowl?"

"That's the idea."

"Well, how about the ultraviolet ray lamp? What's _that_ for?"

"Why," said Biggs, "that's an important part of my new invention. It
isn't ... er ... exactly an ultraviolet ray lamp any more, Sparks. I
made a few minor adjustments on it. It now emits rays in the Hertzian
range. That is, between one M and one-tenth CM in length, electrical
waves for which--up till the present time--no use has ever been found.
But if my theory is correct, they should irradiate the growing seeds
pods with--"

"Never mind," I interrupted him hastily. "You're just wasting your
breath and my time. Let's turn on the juice and see what happens."

"All right," said Biggs. "Let's have that container. What have we
here anyhow? Ah! _Rosa rugosa!_ They should be lovely. Diane will be
delighted."

"Oh, hell!" I said. "Did we get the wrong container? Wait a minute.
I'll go get one with flower seeds in it."

"No, Sparks. _Rosa rugosa_ is a type of beautiful red rose. These
should be exquisite. Here, I've got the seals open. Help me scatter
some of these seeds carefully on the surface of the water ...
there ... that's it! Now, the radiation--"

       *       *       *       *       *

He clicked a switch and the lamp turned on. That is, I suppose it
turned on. I wouldn't know about that exactly, for it emitted no
light. But it must have been emitting _something_, for it did funny
things to the light already existing in the room. It turned things all
topsy-turvy.

You know how it is when you stand in front of a photographer's shop
where they have those violet incandescents? Your flesh sort of turns
bilious green and your lips look like something the cat dragged out
of the well? Well, that's what happened now. I looked at Biggs and
grinned, and he looked at me and split lavender lips in a blue-fanged,
terrifying smile.

"Well!" he said. "There we are. Seventy-two hours from now, when we
reach Iapetus, Diane should have a magnificent bouquet of dewy-fresh
Earth roses, the first ever to be worn on that outpost."

"And seventy-two _seconds_ from now," I told him, "I'm going to have
the screaming meemies from looking at that grass-colored pan of yours.
Let's get out of here."

       *       *       *       *       *

Well, for the next couple of days nothing much happened. The _Saturn_
had been cut over to the V-I unit,[3] of course, and we were jogging
along at a very tidy and comfortable rate of 185,000 m.p.h. toward our
destination. Having helped Lancelot Biggs to the best of my abilities,
I now co-operated in his further efforts (to the betterment of my
sanity) by remaining away from his experimental chamber. He, too,
remained pretty much in seclusion. The only time I saw him was on the
second day after noon mess when he came wandering up to my turret
mumbling to himself like a cow in a clover path.

[Footnote 3: The V-I (velocity-intensifier) unit is an invention of
Lt. Lancelot Biggs which permits space-craft to attain velocities
approaching the "limiting velocity" of light, i.e., approximately
186,000 miles per second.--ED.]

"Sparks," he demanded, "what rhymes with void?"

"Boid," I told him promptly. "Which I ain't ... and 'annoyed' which I
am. Can't a hard-working radioman even catch up his slumbers around
here without you getting in his hair? Why? When did you develop the
poet complex?"

He flushed and laughed awkwardly, "Well, it--er--doesn't really
matter," he temporized. "I was just trying to--Well, I thought it would
be amusing to write a little poem to say to Diane when I gave her the
roses. You know, a sort of a--love song."

"Some people," I snorted, "are born for trouble, and some people have
trouble thrust upon them ... but you're the first guy I ever knew who
went out of his way looking for it. Now it's love songs to go with the
roses. By the way, how are the roses coming along?"

"Why, all right, I suppose," said Biggs. "I haven't been in to see them
since yesterday. You see, I have the thermoes turned up to max in that
room and it's pretty hot--"

"Not half so hot," I told him, "as the Old Man's going to be when he
finds out you're the one who swiped that container from the cargo bin."

Biggs looked started. "Oh! Has he discovered one of them's gone?"

"You're darn tootin' he has! He came busting up here and asked me if I
knew anything about it. I suggested maybe it was mice, but that didn't
go over so big on account of mice don't generally build lead-covered
bungalows. So if he happens to ask you, you'd better--"

"Better," interrupted an irate voice from the doorway, "what?"

       *       *       *       *       *

The two of us spun like drunks in a revolving door. It was Cap Hanson
himself, big as life and twice as furious. Biggs gulped.

"Oh--er--hello, Skipper. Sparks and I were just talking about--er--"

"About poetry," I finished. "Lanse was looking for a rhyme for--"

"Don't lie to me," blazed the skipper. "I heard what you was talkin'
about. _So_, Lancelot! It was _you_ tooken that container of seeds out
of the cargo!"

Biggs said, "Why, yes, Captain, but--"

The Old Man suddenly remembered he was Lancelot Biggs' father-in-law
as well as his chief. His face wrinkled like a prune, and he said in
a melancholy voice, "Now, son, you shouldn't ought to have done that.
Don't you know you're goin' to get in a peck of trouble? Them seeds was
valuable."

"I know," replied Biggs, "but I just took a few seeds out of one of the
containers. Nobody will ever notice. And--and it was our anniversary,
you know. Diane's and mine."

The Old Man shook his head sadly.

"Lancelot, I'm surprised at you. Just took a few out of one of the
containers? Don't you realize that whole box of seeds is ruined now?
Why do you think they sealed them things in lead?"

Oh-oh! Suddenly, but belatedly, I knew what he meant. So did Biggs. The
two of us stared at Hanson, then at each other haggardly.

Lancelot whispered, "Cosmic rays? Oh, my gracious! I forgot all about--"

"Sure, cosmic rays," groaned the Old Man. "You know they create mutants
in dormant germinating cells. Now that them seeds been exposed they
ain't worth a tinker's dam to anybody. They won't breed true. Lord
only knows what kind of freaks and fiddle-di-diddles'll come up--if
anything comes up at all." And he shook his head. "Lancelot, son, I'm
sorry. But you know what I'm goin' to have to do. I'm goin' to have to
enter this on the ship's log, and--and I'm afraid them seeds may cost
you your job!"

       *       *       *       *       *

It was just at that moment the _vocoder_ on my set began chattering.
The interruption suited me fine. I leaped to the controls and hastily
tuned in my caller. But whatever pleasure I had felt dissipated
instantly when I learned who he was and what he wanted. It was Tommy
Jenkins, the bug-pounder at Ganymede IV, space-calling in Compang code.

He asked, "That you, Donovan?"

"It's not my grandmother," I retorted. "Why the Code, Tommy? What's up?"

"Taxes," said Jenkins, "skirt-lengths, and the Big Chief's blood
pressure. Sparks, how far are you from Iapetus?"

I checked traj swiftly on my flight record. "About fifteen hours," I
answered. "Twelve, maybe. Why?"

"Well, you'd better make it ten. Because we just got word the Cosmic
Corporation freighter _Gemini_ is closing in on Yappy with exactly the
same thing you're carrying--a cargo of flower seeds! Orders are to beat
them there at all costs. That is all. _Salujo!_" And he signed off.

I turned to the Old Man. "You heard that, Skipper?"

His face was the color of a 'dobe hut.

"I heard it," he croaked feebly, and stared at Biggs with lacklustre
eyes. "Trouble, trouble; nothin' but trouble! Lanse, is there anything
we can do to speed up a little?"

Biggs shook his head. "No," he groaned. "We're spinning the V-I unit
almost at maximum acceleration now--185,000 plus. If we boost it any
higher we're taking chances. We may exceed the limiting velocity of
light and lose ourselves in the negative universe like we did once
before." A sudden anger disturbed his usual calm complacency. "If we
lose this race," he stormed, "the Company has nobody to blame but
itself! _They_ merchandised the V-I unit and made it available to every
ship in space. Still--we must beat the C.C. to Iapetus, even if we have
to take chances."

He turned to me suddenly. "Sparks, call Jenkins again. See if you can
get an exact locus on the _Gemini_."

I did so. A few minutes later Biggs was seated at my plot table,
anxiously scanning the course trajectories of both their ship and ours,
reeling off involved and typically Biggsian mathematics that would have
warped the gears of a calculating machine. The creases on his brow
etched deeper as his columns of figures grew longer. Finally he stopped
scribbling, lifted his head.

"Well?" asked the Old Man with bated breath. "What's the answer, son?"

"It's close," Biggs told us. "Perilously close. As near as I can
figure, it's a nip and tuck race. They started later than we did, but
their point of departure was nearer our mutual goal. From the viewpoint
of distance alone, they should drop gravs on Iapetus one hour before we
do."

       *       *       *       *       *

Hanson groaned. "Licked again!"

"No," said Biggs. "Not quite. There's one thing which may save us.
Iapetus' diurnal revolution. It's not simply a matter of _reaching_
the satellite. They must actually beat us to the mining city. If their
calculators have figured _our_ position as we have figured _theirs_,
they may be overconfident and think they've licked us just because they
have an hour's advantage. And--this is risky, Cap, but--"

"Go on!" said the Old Man with rising excitement. Risks don't scare
him. Danger is his bread and butter. "Go on!"

"If we can hold the velocity-intensifier in operation until just before
we effect landing, we'll drop to normal acceleration right smack
over that sector of Iapetus where the mines are, thus cancelling the
sixty-odd minutes of stratosphere cruise the _Gemini_ will have to
make--and dropping us into the cradles at practically the same moment."

"If that happens," I broke in, "who gets the contract, Cap? Is there
any provision for deadlock in the Space Regulations?"

The Skipper fumbled with the loose-leaf pages of his memory.

"Yeah," he finally decided, "there is. The Interplanetary Commerce
Code rules that whenever two companies effect a simultaneous landing,
their product shall be offered the governing board of the newly opened
territory in direct competition."

I snorted loudly. "A hell of a lot of good that does us! It'll be a
matter of choosing seeds against seeds. And if I know those Cosmic
Corporation crooks, they'll bribe the Iapetus governing board blue in
the face."

"Wait!" cried Biggs. "It may not be seeds against seeds. It may be
seeds against--flowers!"

"Huh!" gasped the Old Man. "What was that, boy?"

"My ... er ... horticultural experiment," said Lancelot. "By the time
we arrive there--perhaps by _now_--we may actually have flowers to show
them. Exhibit A of the sort of thing our seeds will produce. It should
provide a clinching argument."

Hanson stared at him bewilderedly. "You mean them seeds you swiped are
growing flowers in three days?"

"That's what I hope," nodded Biggs. "Let's find out. Come down to my
growth chamber and we'll see."

We needed no second invitation. In minus zero seconds the three of
us were galloping down the ramp to the room wherein Lancelot Biggs
had installed his hydroponic tank. We waited breathlessly as he
fumbled with the lock ... then gasped and choked as the door opened
and a steamy mist gushed out to smack us in the pans with an almost
ponderable force. Then regardless of the heat the three of us were
crowding into the narrow cubicle and--

[Illustration: A welter of tropic growths tumbled out of the door.]

"Great snakes!" I gasped.

"Good goddlemitey!" croaked Cap Hanson.

"Oh, my gracious!" bleated Biggs.

For we had stepped not into the metal chamber of a space-craft
bunkroom--but into what seemed the foetid fen of some steamy swampland
jungle!

       *       *       *       *       *

It's hard to describe what that room looked like. Imagine a Gauguin
painting come to life ... a tropical hothouse gone berserk. That gives
you some idea.

The original tank wherein Biggs had sprinkled the rose seeds was
completely invisible, submerged beneath a crawling octopus of greenery.
Writhing fronds spewed from the container to twist in tumultuous
entanglement beneath our feet ... up the walls ... across the ceiling.
Twining and spiraling around every piece of furniture, every bracket,
any support to which suckered tendrils could cling. A heady perfume
thickened the air; perfume from monstrous growths that no more
resembled a rose than _I_ look like a wasteland Martian.

Cap Hanson had been right. The action of cosmic rays had done weird
things to those original germ cells.[4] _Rosa rugosa_ had--figuratively
and literally--gone crazy with the heat waves. Here triple-headed
roses with spiny petals reared themselves awkwardly out of thick
spongy, palmate foliage ... there a pinkish, cactus-like rose-thing
clung tenaciously to a table leg ... elsewhere gossamer-fine, lavender
petals, propelled by stirring gusts of air, drifted lazily across the
room toward us, dangling epiphytic roots.

[Footnote 4: Science has already discovered that the bombardment of
cosmic rays is at least partially responsible for the creation of
"freaks," "sports," or "mutants," in both the animal and vegetable
world. Life on atmosphere-blanketed planets is not subject to
this bombardment, because of the protective Heaviside energy
layer ... but space-craft must be carefully shielded from such
radiation.--ED.]

It was a startling exhibition of Mama Nature gone nuts! Only in two
respects did these fantastic creations resemble the roses from which
they were mutant. Each variation had thorns--as we discovered painfully
when we tried to walk amongst them--and all had some shade or tint or
hue of the fundamental red rose whence they had sprung.

Cap Hanson groaned, "Oh, my golly, what a mess! Of all the--Hey, let me
out of here! Whatever's goin' on, it's gettin' _us_, too! Your faces!"

Biggs cracked indigo lips in what was supposed to be a placating grin
but looked more like a hungry pitcher-plant licking its chops. He
said, "The color means nothing, Captain. It's just a matter of light
refraction."

"Which doesn't alter the fact," I reminded him, "that the experiment's
a flop, Lanse, old boy. I--I guess we might as well call it quits.
Clean this mess up and throw it away. We can't show this stuff to the
Iapetus board. They'd toss us out on our necks."

Biggs nodded dolefully. "I guess you're right, Sparks. This is a bitter
disappointment. I did _so_ want to surprise her."

"Her?" grunted Hanson. "The Board's made up of hims."

"I mean," wailed Biggs plaintively, "Diane. Now she won't get her
anniversary corsage...."

       *       *       *       *       *

So that was that. The Skipper went back to the bridge to give our
second in command, Lieutenant Dick Todd, the necessary trajectory
instructions, and I stuck around, sweating and swearing, to help Biggs
clean up the aboriginal morass he had created with his experiment.
It was tough going, too. Like I said before, those roses had thorns.
By the time we got done, our fingers looked like First Prize in a
needlework exhibit.

It was just as we were finishing and Biggs was draining the final
rugose drops of fluid from his tank that he loosed a little yelp of
excitement.

"Sparks!"

"Now what?" I asked. "If it's another experiment--"

"Look! This one bred true in spite of the cosmic rays." And with
quivering fingers he held up for my inspection one tiny bud which had
been nestling coyly in a corner of the tank. A small but perfectly
formed, brilliantly scarlet rosebud!

Well, I guess it was the irony of it that got me. I stared at the poor,
pathetic, bedraggled little thing for a minute, then I chuckled.

"Well, there's the love song you were looking for, Biggs."

"Eh? What's that?"

"When you give her that bud," I told him, "you can say to her, '_Roses
are red, violets are blue; the rest went whacky, but this one grew_'."

Biggs said defensively, "Well, anyhow, this proves my theory about
growth stimulation was right. It may not work in open space, but it
will work on a planet where there are atmosphere blankets against
cosmic ray penetration. And Diane _will_ get one rose."

And with painstaking care he transferred the bud to a glass of water.
Poor little pitiful symbol of a noble experiment which flopped.

       *       *       *       *       *

And that was all until ten hours later. It's a shame to gloss over the
excitement of those next ten hours, but it was mostly technical stuff
you Earth-lubbers wouldn't understand.

The main point is that, though as a botanist Lancelot Biggs may
be a bum Burbank, as an astrogator he is in a class by himself.
His computations proved correct to four decimal places. We held
the _Saturn_ on the V-I unit until we were so close to Iapetus
that the permalloy walls of our space-freighter started humming
with tropospheric pressure, then released to normal acceleration,
and--_bingo!_ There we were, smack-dab over the new and as yet unnamed
mining town. Just as Biggs had predicted.

Our appearance out of seemingly thin air--you understand what I mean
if you know how the velocity-intensifier works--not only created a
sensation on Iapetus; it darned near created an accident in our little
segment of atmosphere. For when we switched over we found ourselves not
more than a quarter mile from the Cosmic Corporation's _Gemini_, which
had been easing into Iapetus complacently unaware that _we_ were within
several thousand miles.

Instantly there was hectic excitement upon both ships. Landing rocket
jets flared, grav clamps growled, and the two of us hurtled groundward
like brickbats.

It was a photo finish. We nosed into one cradle just as they
stern-jetted into a second. And just as Cap Hanson leaped from _our_
airlock, the _Gemini's_ skipper burst from theirs.

Hanson bawled,
"IPS-freighter-_Saturn_-landing-with-a-cargo-of-flower-seeds--"

His competitor screamed, "CC-freighter-_Gemini_-claiming-priority-on--"

But neither of them got to first base. A representative of the Iapetus
colonists came to each ship, and the messages they delivered were
identical.

"The governing board has decided that landings were effected
simultaneously. Consequently you will present all wares for decision in
open competition. Please report immediately to the general offices."

       *       *       *       *       *

So there we were, a few minutes later, standing in the council room of
the Iapetus governing board; Cap Hanson, Lancelot Biggs, Diane, and
myself, glaring angrily across the room at representatives from our
competitor space-craft, the _Gemini_. _Gemini_ means "twins," which in
this case was right, because the glares Cap Hanson and Cap Murgatroyd
were hurling at each other were Siamese.

The Iapetus governor, an Earthman named Larrabee--said quietly,
"Gentlemen, welcome to our new colony. Now ... I believe you each carry
cargoes on which you wish to claim commercial priorities for your
respective companies? Will you be kind enough to declare the nature of
these cargoes?"

"Mine," said Cap Hanson loudly, "is flower seeds." And scowled at
Murgatroyd.

"Mine," said Murgatroyd loudly, "is flower seeds." And scowled at Cap
Hanson.

The Iapetus governor stroked his jaw thoughtfully.

"This is a delicate situation, gentlemen. You both carry a cargo our
colonists will receive eagerly. It may be rather difficult to decide
which of you--but I must let you present your own cases. What types of
flowers are you carrying?"

"Roses," declared Cap Hanson defiantly. "Eighteen varieties of roses,
includin' the rare, perennial Venusian swamp-rose."

"I see. And you, Captain Murgatroyd?"

"Thirty-four separate and distinct varieties of flowering plants,"
declared our opponent triumphantly, "including roses, geraniums,
nasturtiums, pinks ... practically everything, sir!"

"Ah, yes. That seems to be a point in your favor, Captain Murgatroyd.
Now--the size of your cargoes--?"

"Five hundred lead-sealed ten-bushel containers," gloated Captain
Murgatroyd.

"Very good. And you, Captain Hanson?"

"The IPS," snarled the Old Man, "don't go in for samples! When we
carry a cargo, we carry a cargo. Twelve hundred lead-sealed ten-bushel
containers, Your Honor!"

"Excellent! Excellent, Captain! That seems to be a point in _your_
favor. This is most difficult. Er ... Captain Murgatroyd ... perhaps
you could give us some idea as to the growth potentialities of your
flowers?"

Murgatroyd grinned and dug into an inner pocket, brought forth a folder
which he placed in the Governor's hands.

"Yes, sir. Here is a four-color brochure issued by our Company,
describing each and every type of plant we have brought to Iapetus, and
reproducing pictures of those flowers in full natural color."

       *       *       *       *       *

The Governor shook out the papers, and my heart played tag with my
shoestrings. The CC's publicity department had done a magnificent job.
Those natural color photographs were luscious enough to make the mouth
of the rankest amateur gardener water. Gay yellows and soft blues ...
brilliant splotches of crimson ... dainty, sunny marigolds ... shy
nodding violets ... that pamphlet was a tempting hunk of stuff.

But I had been wrong in thinking the Governor of Iapetus could be
bribed. He was an honest man. He turned to Cap Hanson.

"And you, Captain? Have you a similar brochure?"

The Old Man scrubbed his jaw feebly. "Why ... er ... the truth is, Your
Honor--" he began.

It was then Lancelot Biggs stepped forward, interrupting the skipper.

"The truth is, Governor," he said blandly, "_our_ Company does not
depend on printed booklets to sell its products. There is, you surely
realize, a certain amount of artistic falsification--or should I
simply call it 'artistic license'?--employed in reproducing facsimiles
of living objects. Therefore, in order to sell _our_ goods we always
attempt to offer a living example of our product.

"I have here--" He dug into his jacket pocket and brought forth a
bulging waxine envelope--"the bud of one of our most gorgeous blooms,
the famous _Rosa rugosa_. You can see for yourself--"

With the look of a proud papa he opened the flap of the envelope,
started to withdraw his single rosebud, and--stopped suddenly. A
look of startled alarm drained his face of all color. He whispered,
"But--but this--"

"Go on, lad," prodded the Old Man. "Show 'em. You got a bud there,
ain't you? Well, show 'em."

But Biggs didn't show 'em. Instead, he closed the envelope again,
slipped it back into his coat pocket, and his liquescent larynx bobbled
frantically as he said,

"I--I'm sorry, gentlemen. I haven't anything to show you."

"Why?" I demanded. "Lanse, for gosh sakes, _why_? What's happened to--"

He turned to me haggardly. "The bud--" he choked--"_died_!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Well, I'll hand it to that Governor. He was not only honest; he was so
fair and square you could have used him for a measuring rod. He said
consolingly, "That's too bad, Mr. Biggs. But accidents will happen. Is
there anything further you have to say on behalf of your product?"

"I got plenty to say!" stormed the Skipper. "Just on account of one bud
died don't mean we ain't got--"

"Excuse me, Skipper," interrupted Lancelot Biggs mildly. "I--I think
the time for deceit has passed."

"_What!_ What's that?"

"I think the governor should be told the truth," said Biggs. "We should
confess that our seeds are not a first class product. Might not,
indeed, even flourish in the soil of Iapetus."

"Lanse!" I cried. "Do you know what you're saying? Don't talk like
that!"

"Yes, Governor," nodded Lancelot Biggs sorrowfully, "I'm afraid that's
true. Your colony wouldn't want our seeds. For one thing, they're all
roses. The Cosmic Corporation offers you all kinds of flowers. For
another thing, our seeds are not particularly hardy. Furthermore,
I'm afraid a number of them were spoiled in transit when the leaden
containers were broken, allowing cosmic rays to seep in--"

"_Biggs!_" howled Cap Hanson. "Shut up this minute an' get out of here!
What do you mean by tellin' lies like that? A number of our containers?
It was only _one_ container, and--"

The Governor interrupted him with a smooth lift of the hand.

"Never mind, Captain Hanson. We understand. Er ... thank you, Mr.
Biggs, for your frank statement. Gentlemen of the Council, you have
reached a decision? Yes, I thought so.

"Captain Murgatroyd, it gives me great pleasure to award you, on behalf
of the Iapetus Governing Board, full priority rights to the flower-seed
concession on our new colony, as set forth in Rule 14, Paragraph--"

"_Ruined!_" wailed Cap Hanson. "Sabotaged by a wolf in cheap clothing!
Diane, why did you ever marry that falsifying, good for nothin'--"

He broke down. We led him, babbling incoherently, back to the ship.

       *       *       *       *       *

But there, Diane, who had held up nobly throughout the proceedings,
turned to her husband curiously.

"Lanse, dear, you know I've always backed you up in everything you've
done, but--but why did you do this? Don't you know the loss of this
monopoly will cost the Company millions, and may cost Daddy his job?"

Lanse nodded. "Yes, I know that would be true, dear ... if there were
not other factors involved."

Cap Hanson lifted his head drearily.

"Other factors?"

"Yes, Skipper. Something amazing has happened. Something so incredible
that even yet I can scarcely credit it. It all turns about something
Sparks said--"

"Who, me?" I gulped. "Now, don't drag _me_ into this."

"You remember that ... er ... love song you suggested to me?" queried
Biggs.

I nodded glumly. "Sure. '_Roses are red, violets are blue, the rest
went whacky_--'"

"But this one--" finished Lancelot Biggs triumphantly--"is _blue_!"

And dramatically he drew from its waxine envelope the rosebud he had
refused to show the Iapetus Governor, tossed it on the table before us.
We all stared at it in gasping bewilderment. For he was right. That
tiny rosebud was a brilliant, penetrating, heavenly, _cobalt blue_!

Cap Hanson choked, "But--but a blue rose! I never seen such a thing
before!"

"Neither," crowed Biggs, "has anyone else. But flower-lovers
have dreamed of them for centuries.[5] Hundreds of thousands of
dollars--perhaps millions--have been spent by botanists in an effort
to create that rare, often wished for but never accomplished example
of beauty, the blue rose. A fortune awaits the first man to put such a
thing on the market. And by luck we have done it!"

[Footnote 5: "Although the attempt has often been made to produce
a blue rose, no one has ever succeeded.... The reason a blue rose
has never been produced is that blue has never arisen spontaneously
in the Genus _Rosa_, and no blue flower of another genus has ever
been found that will ... transfer its blue color to the latter. A
breeder who could do this would ... make a fortune." Gager: _The Plant
World_.--ED.]

"You--you mean people will _buy_ this thing?"

"From now," declared Biggs, "until the end of time! This single mutant
will parent a whole new breed of blue roses, and botanists throughout
the entire solar system will mortgage their hothouses to buy slips from
this parent plant.

"Now you see why I couldn't show it to the governor, I couldn't risk
letting the secret get out until we had taken the bud back to Earth,
patented it in the name of the IPS.

"Incidentally--" He coughed delicately--"our Company should be very
pleased. I think we may anticipate a considerable bonus for our part in
creating this new species."

       *       *       *       *       *

I said, "But, hey--wait a minute! There's something wrong somewhere. I
seen that bud before. But when I did, it wasn't blue! It was as red as
an old maid's face at a strip-tease!"

"_Looked_ red, you mean," corrected Biggs. "Not _was_ red. That was
a matter of color reflection, Sparks, caused by the Hertzian ray
lamp I had installed in the laboratory. You will remember our faces
were green, our lips purplish. You see, color is a tricky thing. For
instance, when you see a green leaf, what color is that leaf?"

"Why, you just said. Green, of course."

"Ah, no!" said Biggs. "It is _every color but green_! Colors by which
we designate objects are _not_ their true colors. Quite the reverse.
They are the colors those objects reflect.[6] Under the Hertzian wave
this precious bud--" He caressed it fondly--"apparently reflected all
colors save red. We therefore thought it a normal red rose. But now
that we see it under ordinary light, we realize it absorbs the red
range as well as all others save the blue."

[Footnote 6: "Sunlight, as Sir Isaac Newton discovered, is a
combination of the seven colors that compose the spectrum. An object
is red because it is so constituted that it reflects the red rays of
a beam of sunlight but absorbs all others ... a lily is white because
it reflects all the rays ... a buttercup is yellow because it reflects
only the yellow rays, absorbing all others ... an object is black
because it absorbs all the colors of the spectrum." Gager: _The Plant
World_.--ED.]

He shrugged. "So--there you are! And now, darling, if you will allow
me, I would like to give you a little anniversary present. The first
blue rose ever to be grown--"

But Cap Hanson snatched the bud from his hand feverishly.

"Oh, no, you don't! That there thing goes right back into your fish
pond and keeps growin' until we get back to Earth. Which is goin' to be
as quick as we can make it, or maybe more so. If you two gotta have an
anniversary treat, I'll see to it that Slops whips up a special banquet
tonight, complete with champagny-water an' everything. How's that?"

And from the look in Diane's and Lancelot's eyes as they moved toward
each other, I guessed it would probably be all right. For when a man
and a woman feel that way about each other, they don't really need
special dates to celebrate.

Anyhow, Lancelot Biggs had warbled his song of love. "Love sends a
little gift of roses." Yeah--_blue_ roses! But what did you expect?
That whacky wingding of the spaceways never does anything in a normal
way.

Or--does he?



*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74138 ***